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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23061658">(could it be that) you and me are the lucky ones</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/trusteachother/pseuds/trusteachother'>trusteachother</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Feelings, Sharing a Bed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:27:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,015</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23061658</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/trusteachother/pseuds/trusteachother</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve catches her wrist when she drops the sole evidence that he ages at all and brings her hand to rest on his chest. (She won't admit it's a spot she considers hers, she won't).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Wanda Maximoff/Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>(could it be that) you and me are the lucky ones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A longer version of a drabble I posted back in 2018. Canon and timelines are what you wish them to be, I don't even know. Title from ‘Lucky Ones’ by Lana Del Rey. Hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Do you suppose Vision sleeps?” Steve wonders.</p><p>Her fingers still their lazy roaming through his hair. Vision hasn’t entered her room at will in a long time, now that she thinks of it. Not since Steve's presence in her bed had become public knowledge a few days ago. She rolls her eyes; of course it takes another man for him to regard her utterly insane request that he please <em> knocked </em> on the <em> door</em>. (He’s more of a man than he believes).</p><p>“I think he just rests, like when you put a computer in sleep mode.”</p><p>She regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth. A computer is cold and unfeeling and Vision is neither.</p><p>Her fingers catch a single, shiny, grey hair and she remembers this man is ninety-seven years old. She watches the thick strand change colors against the last light of day.</p><p>One day she will ask him just how cold the ice keeping him trapped felt against his skin. Maybe he will ask her how her body being treated as a plaything was like. Though he already knows that — devastatingly invasive and unspeakable.</p><p>Here, laying next to him, her covered feet poking into his calf innocently, he looks painfully young and unpracticed. She'd give him twenty, twenty-five at most, would presume he was in business or accounting, he certainly looked the part.</p><p>Steve catches her wrist when she drops the sole evidence that he ages at all and brings her hand to rest on his chest. (She won't admit it's a spot she considers hers, she won't.)</p><p>“Should we have dinner? Are you hungry?” She asks suddenly.</p><p>“Are <em> you</em>?”</p><p>They will get up if says yes. They will stay where they are if she says no. Steve will acquiescence, will not care for his own hunger or thirst and that's both his biggest flaw and the reason Wanda feels so safe, truly, impossibly safe.</p><p>He is not the man to take, to impose or to force. Sometimes he’s too good for his own sake. It’s not a simple metaphor when he says he would let people walk all over him.</p><p>She could make him do anything, say anything if she wanted. It does not mean he's weak or empty-headed but that he has known both unforgiving pain and the cusp of all glory and what could be more inherently pure than giving, just giving after all that?</p><p>He could reject the human race. He certainly had the right to. He could've send them all to hell when they pulled him out of the ice and thrown him back into this mess. They hadn't asked him. He still gave, still gives.</p><p>She will make sure he's not consumed in the process. That he does not forget to eat and drink and sleep and rest.</p><p>“Not really. I'd rather stay in bed until morning.”</p><p>"Same here.” She can <em> hear </em>the playful smile in his voice.</p><p>“Then get in bed.”</p><p>“I’m in bed.”</p><p>“<em>Steve </em>.”</p><p>He never gets under the covers though winter is just around the corner and the nights are growing steadily colder.</p><p>He watches her from behind his lashes then, vulnerability clear in his handsome features. </p><p>“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”</p><p>He could never. He's a proper gentleman if she's ever seen one.</p><p>“Who invited you here in the first place?”</p><p>It’s shaky, she knows, for it’s unclear how this whole ordeal came to be in the first place.</p><p>It had been a nightmare or a set of them, needles pricking her, cables all around her body, so vivid she couldn't sleep for days. For better or worse, she hadn't been alone in her insomnia. Steve had his own demons, of red and black and dark green hues. She's never asked, not yet, but she sees the shadows in his eyes sometimes.</p><p>She still doesn't know who said it first, who was suddenly struck with the idea, if it occurred to them both in the same thousandth of a second; an inescapable prophecy, not a conscious choice. At least, that's what she tells herself when she wakes up every morning, arm draped over Steve's chest.</p><p>It’s not that they’re doing something wrong. It's not something born of coercion or any other ugly adjective for that matter. </p><p>Sokovia is in ruins. </p><p>Pietro is dead.</p><p>She knows this is the only good thing that's happened in a very long time, knows it in her core, but she can't shake her insecurities.</p><p>It's only that, somehow, her happiness tends to feel unjustified, barely short of a mockery. Deep down, she believes this truth: if she accepts it, even for a minute, this notion of finally being at peace — everything will fall apart.</p><p>Tonight, though, tonight she feels differently. The building is quiet, not even one of Stark's machines can be heard beeping and twitching in the dark.</p><p>It's because of her brother, this defiant feeling. This step she's taking, though Steve doesn't even suspect it.</p><p>Pietro had come to her in a dream the night past to whisper a single word in her ear, exactly what she needed: ‘yдачливый’.</p><p><em> — Lucky, </em> it meant lucky. She had felt exactly that; a pure, unmitigated sense of luck of being in <em> that </em> moment, holding Steve with her living hands, fresh off her dream.</p><p>So tonight she will seize it, <em> choose </em> it, choose him, shamelessly, over every obstacle she can think of. (And it <em> is </em>only in her head, isn't it?)</p><p>"Please," she whispers, and doesn't have to repeat herself.</p><p>He <em> actually </em>gets in bed. It takes a couple of minutes, of twisting and turning, but she would wait years to lay her head on his warm chest as she does now. </p><p>His body shape is different than her brother’s. His smell, the way he styles his hair, the clothes he wears, she's not used to any part of him. It’s not better or worse, just different. Distinct. Steve. </p><p>He kisses her forehead, whispers: “Good night.”</p><p>Yes, the tingles she feels are entirely foreign.</p><p>(She could get used to it, <em>wants</em> <em>to</em>, so desperately it scares her.)</p>
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